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Incidentally,  I  hope  to  derive  from  the  body  of  their  verse,  —  so  various  in 
form  and  thought,  —  and  from  the  record  of  their  different  experiences,  cor 
rect  ideas  in  respect  to  the  aim  and  province  of  the  art  of  Poetry,  and  not  a 
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HAWTHORNE,  and  otlier  Poems,    cloth,  $1.25 


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RECENT    POEMS. 


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HAWTHORNE 


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BOSTON: 

JAMES   R.  OSGOOD   AND   COMPANY, 

LATE  TICKNOR  &  FIELDS,  AND  FIELDS,  OSGOOD,  &  Co. 


COPYRIGHT,  1877. 
BY  JAMES  R.  OSGOOD  &  CO. 


All  rights  reserved. 


UNIVERSITY  PRESS  :  WELCH,  BIGELOW,  &  Co. 
CAMBRIDGE 


0  ing 
BENJAMIN    HOLT   TICKNOR, 

THIS  VOLUME  IS  INSCRIBED. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

HAWTHORNE 9 

THE  DISCOVERER 26 

SISTER  BEATRICE 31 

SEEKING  THE  MAY-FLOWER 46 

NEWS  FROM  OLYMPIA 50 

THE  MONUMENT  OF  GREELEY 55 

KEARNY  AT  SEVEN  PINES 67 

CUSTER 70 

THE  COMEDIAN'S  LAST  NIGHT        .       .        .        .  -74 

ALL  IN  A  LIFETIME 77 

THE  SKULL  IN  THE  GOLD-DRIFT 80 

SONG  FROM  A  DRAMA 86 

THE  SUN-DIAL 88 

MADRIGAL 90 


viii  CONTENTS. 

CLARA  MORRIS •       •       -93 

WITH  A  SPRIG  OF  HEATHER        .....-•         94 

THE  LORD'S-DAY  GALE 97 

TRANSLATIONS. 

I.    DEATH  OF  AGAMEMNON  (from  Homer)     ...        109 
II.    DEATH  OF  AGAMEMNON  (from  Aischylos)      .       .        .121 


HAWTHORNE. 

READ   BEFORE   THE   SOCIETY  OF   THE   PHI   BETA  KAPPA, 
HARVARD  UNIVERSITY,  CAMBRIDGE,  JUNE  28,  1877. 


HAWTHORNE. 


HARP  of  New  England  song, 
That  even  in  slumber  tremblest  with  the  touch 

Of  poets  who  like  the  four  winds  from  thee  waken 
All  harmonies  that  to  thy  strings  belong, — 
Say,  wilt  thou  blame  the  younger  hands  too  much 

Which  from  thy  laurelled  resting-place  have  taken 
Thee,  crowned-one,  in  their  hold?    There  is  a  name 
Should  quicken  thee!     No  carol  Hawthorne  sang, 
Yet  his  articulate  spirit,  like  thine  own, 

Made  answer,  quick  as  flame, 

To  each  breath  of  the  shore  from  which  he  sprang, 
And  prose  like  his  was  poesy's  high  tone. 


12  HAWTHORNE. 


;  ,  i  ,  <  i  , . , , .  ,By  measureless  degrees 

Star  follows  star  throughout  the  rounded  night. 

Far  off  his  path  began,  yet  reached  the  near 
Sweet  influences  of  the  Pleiades, — 
A  portion  and  a  sharer  of  the  light 

That  shall  so  long  outlast  each  burning  sphere. 
Beneath  the  shade  and  whisper  of  the  pines 

Two  youths  were  fostered  in  the  Norseland  air ; 
One  found  an  eagle's  plume,  and  one  the  wand 
Wherewith  a  seer  divines : 

Now  but  the  Minstrel  lingers  of  that  pair, — 
The  rod  has  fallen  from  the  Mage's  hand. 

Gray  on  thy  mountain  height, 
More  fair  than  wonderland  beside  thy  streams, 

Thou  with  the  splendors  twain  of  youth  and  age, 
This  was  the  son  who  read  thy  heart  aright, 
Of  whom  thou  wast  beholden  in  his  dreams,  — 


HAWTHORNE.  13 

The  one  New-Englander !     Upon  whose  page 
Thine  offspring  still  are  animate,  and  move 

Adown  thy  paths,  a  quaint  and  stately  throng: 
Grave  men  of  God  who  made  the  olden  law, 

Fair  maidens,  meet  for  love, — 
All  living  types  that  to  the  coast  belong 

Since  Carver  from  the  prow  thy  headlands  saw. 

What  should  the  master  be 
Who  to  the  world  New-England's  self  must  render, 

Her  best  interpreter,  her  very  own? 
How  spake  the  brooding  Mother,  strong  and  tender, 
Back -looking  through  her  youth  betwixt  the  moan 

Of  forests  and  the  murmur  of  the  sea? 
"Thou  too,"  she  said,  "must  first  be  set  aside 

To  keep  my  ancient  vigil  for  a  space, — 
Taught  by  repression,  by  the  combating 
With  thine  own  pride  of  pride, 


14  HAWTHORNE. 

An  unknown  watcher  in  a  lonely  place 

With  none  on  whom  thine  utterance  to  flinsf." 

O 

But  first  of  all  she  fed 
Her  heart's  own  favorite  upon  the  store 

Of  precious  things  she  treasures  in  her  woods, 
Of  charm  and  story  in  her  valleys  spread. 
For  him  her  whispering  winds  and  brooks  that  pour 

Made  ceaseless  music  in  the  solitudes ; 
The  manifold  bright  surges  of  her  deep 

Gave  him  their  light.     Within  her  voice's  call 
She  lured  him  on,  by  roadways  overhung 

With  elms,  that  he  might  keep 
Remembrance  of  her  legends  as  they  fall 

Her  shaded  walks  and  gabled  roofs  among. 

Within  the  mists  she  drew, 
Anon,  his  silent  footsteps,  as  her  own 
Were  led  of  old,  until  he  came  to  be 


HAWTHORNE.  15 

An  eremite,  whose  life  the  desert  knew, 
And  gained  companionship  in  dreams  alone. 

The  world,  it  seemed,  had  naught  for  such  as  he, — 
For  one  who,  in  his  heart's  deep  wilderness 

Shrunk  darkling  and,  whatever  wind  might  blow, 
Found  no  quick  use  for  potent  hands  and  fain, 

No  chance  that  might  express 
To  human-kind  the  thoughts  which  moved  him  so. 
—  O,  deem  not  those  long  years  were  quite  in 
vain  ! 

For  his  was  the  brave  soul 
Which,  touched  with  fire,  dwells  not  on  whatsoever 

Its  outer  senses  hold  in  their  intent, 
But,  sleepless  even  in  sleep,  must  gather  toll 
Of  dreams  which  pass  like  barks  upon  the  river 

And  make  each  vision  Beauty's  instrument ; 
That  from  its  own  love  Love's  delight  can  tell, 


16  HAWTHORNE. 

And  from  its  own  grief  guess  the  shrouded  Sorrow; 
From  its  own  joyousness  of  Joy  can  sing; 

That  can  predict  so  well 
From  its  own  dawn  the  lustre  of  to-morrow, 

The  whole  flight  from  the  flutter  of  the  wing. 

And  his  the  gift  which  sees 
A  revelation  and  a  tropic  sign 

In  the  lone  passion-flower,  and  can  discover 
The  likeness  of  the  far  Antipodes, 
Though  but  a  leaf  is  stranded  from  the  brine ; 

His  the  fine  spirit  which  is  so  true  a  lover 
Of  sovran  Art,  that  all  the  becks  of  life 

Allure  it  not  until  the  work  be  wrought. 
Nay,  though  the  shout  and  smoke  of  combat  rose, 

He,  through  the  changeful  strife, 
Eternal  loveliness  more  closely  sought, 

And  Beauty's  changeless  law  and  sure  repose. 


HAWTHORNE.  17 

Was  it  not  well  that  one  — 
One,  if  no  more  —  should  meditate  aloof, 

Though  not  for  naught  the  time's  heroic  quarrel, 
From  what  men  rush  to  do  and  what  is  done. 
He  little  knew  to  join  the  web  and  woof 

Whereof  slow  Progress  weaves  her  rich  apparel, 
But  toward  the  Past  half  longing  turned  his  head. 

His  deft  hand  dallied  with  its  common  share 
Of  human  toil,  nor  sought  new  loads  to  lift, 

But  held  itself,  instead, 
All  consecrate  to  uses  that  make  fair, 
By  right  divine  of  his  mysterious  gift. 

How  should  the  world  discern 
The  artist's  self,  save  through  the  fine  creation 

Of  his  rare  moment  ?     How,  but  from  his  song, 
The  unfettered  spirit  of  the  minstrel  learn  ? 
Yet  on  this  one  the  stars  had  set  the  station 


18  HAWTHORNE. 

Which  to  the  chief  romancer  should  belong: 
Child  of  the  Beautiful !   whose  regnant  brow 
She  made  her  canopy,  and  from  his  eyes 
Looked  outward  with  a  steadfast  purple  gleam. 

Who  saw  him  marvelled  how 
The  soul  of  that  impassioned  ray  could  lie 

So  calm  beyond,  —  unspoken  all  its  dream. 

What  sibyl  to  him  bore 
The  secret  oracles  that  move  and  haunt? 

At  night's  dread  noon  he  scanned  the  enchanted  glass, 
Ay,  and  himself  the  warlock's  mantle  wore, 
Nor  to  the  thronging  phantoms  said  Avaunt, 

But  waved  his  rod  and  bade  them  rise  and  pass ; 
Till  thus  he  drew  the  lineaments  of  men 

Who  fought  the  old  colonial  battles  three, 
Who  with  the  lustihood  of  Nature  warred 
And  made  her  docile, — then 


HAWTHORNE.  19 

Wrestled  with  Terror  and  with  Tyranny, 

Twin  wardens  of  the  scaffold  and  the  sword. 

He  drew  his  native  land, 
The  few  and  rude  plantations  of  her  Past, 

Fringed  by  the  beaches  of  her  sounding  shore ; 
Her  children,  as  he  drew  them,  there  they  stand ; 
There,  too,  her  Present,  with  an  outline  cast 

Still  from  the  shape  those  other  centuries  wore. 
Betimes  the  orchards  and  the  clover-fields 

Change  into  woods  o'ershadowing  a  host 
That  winds  along  the  Massachusetts  Path  j 

The  sword  of  Standish  shields 

The  Plymouth  band,  and  where  the  lewd  ones  boast 
Stern  Endicott  pours  out  his  godly  wrath. 

Within  the  Province  House 
The  ancient  governors  hold  their  broidered  state,  — 


20  HAWTHORNE. 

Still  gleam  the  lights,  the  shadows  come  and  go; 
Here  once  again  the  powdered  guests  carouse, 
The  masquerade  lasts  on,  the  night  is  late. 

Thrice  waves  a  mist-invoking  wand,  and  lo, 
What  troubled  sights !     What  summit  bald  and  steep 

Where  stands  a  ladder  'gainst  the  accursed  tree? 
What  dark  processions  thither  slowly  climb  ? 
Anon,  what  lost  ones  keep 

Their  midnight  tryst  with  forms  that  evil  be, 
Around  the  witch-fire  in  the  forest  grim ! 

Clearly  the  master's  plan 
Revealed  his  people,  even  as  they  were, 

The  prayerful  elder  and  the  winsome  maid, 
The  errant  roisterer,  the  Puritan, 
Dark  Pyncheon,  mournful  Hester,  —  all  are  there. 

But  none  save  he  in  our  own  time  so  laid 
His  summons  on  man's  spirit;   none  but  he, 


HAWTHORNE.  21 

Whether  the  light  thereof  were  clear  or  clouded, 
Thus  on  his  canvas  fixed  the  human  soul, 

The  thoughts  of  mystery, 
In  deep  hearts  by  this  mortal  guise  enshrouded, 

Wild  hearts  that  like   the  church-bells  ring  and 
toll. 

Two  natures  in  him  strove 

Like  day  with  night,  his  sunshine  and  his  gloom. 
To  him  the  stern  forefathers'  creed  descended, 
The  weight  of  some  inexorable  Jove 
Prejudging  from  the  cradle  to  the  tomb ; 

But  therewithal  the  lightsome  laughter  blended 
Of  that  Arcadian  sweetness  undismayed 

Which  finds  in  Love  its  law,  and  graces  still 
The  rood,  the  penitential  symbol  worn,  — 
Which  sees,  beyond  the  shade, 
The  Naiad  nymph  of  every  rippling  rill, 

And  hears  quick  Fancy  wind  her  wilful  horn. 


22  HAWTHORNE. 

What  if  he  brooded  long 
On  Time  and  Fate,  —  the  ominous  progression 

Of  years  that  with  Man's  retributions  frown, — 
The  destinies  which  round  his  footsteps  throng, — 
Justice,  that  heeds  not  Mercy's  intercession, — 

Crime,  on  its  own  head  calling  vengeance  down, — 
Deaf  Chance  and  blind,  that,  like  the  mountain-slide 

Puts  out  Youth's  heart  of  fire  and  all  is  dark! 
What  though  the  blemish  which,  in  aught  of  earthj 

The  maker's  hand  defied, 
Was  plain  to  him,  —  the  one  evasive  mark 

Wherewith  Death  stamps  us  for  his  own  at  birth ! 

Ah,  none  the  less  we  know 
He  felt  the  imperceptible  fine  thrill 

With  which  the  waves  of  being  palpitate, 
Whether  in  ecstasy  of  joy  or  woe, 
And  saw  the  strong  divinity  of  Will 

Bringing  to  halt  the  ^tolid  tramp  of  Fate  j 


HAWfHORNE.  23 

Nor  from  his  work  was  ever  absent  quite 

The  presence  which,  o'ercast  it  as  we  may, 
Things  far  beyond  our  reason  can  suggest: 

There  was  a  drifting  light 
In  Donatello's  cell,  —  a  fitful  ray 

Of  sunshine  came  to  hapless  Clifford's  breast. 

Into  such  blossom  brake 
Our  northern  hedge,  that  neither  mortal  sadness 

Nor  the  drear  thought  of  lives  that  strive  and  fail, 
Nor  any  hues  its  sombre  leaves  might  take 
From  clouded  skies,  could  overcome  its  gladness 

Or  in  the  blessing  of  its  shade  prevail. 
Fresh  sprays  it  yielded  them  of  Merry  Mount 

For  wedding  wreaths ;  blithe  Phoebe  with  the  sweet 
Pure  flowers  her  promise  to  her  lover  gave : 

Beside  it,  from  a  fount 

Where  Pearl  and  Pansie  plashed  their  innocent  feet, 
A  brook  ran  on  and  kissed  Zenobia's  grave. 


24  HAWTHORNE. 

Silent  and  dark  the  spell 
Laid  on  New  England  by  the  frozen  North ; 

Long,  long  the  months,  —  and  yet  the  Winter  ends, 
The  snow-wraiths  vanish,  and  rejoicing  well 
The  dandelions  from  the  grass  leap  forth, 

And  Spring  through  budding  birch  and  willow  sends 
Her  wind  of  Paradise.     And  there  are  left 

Poets  to  sing  of  all,  and  welcome  still 
The  robin's  voice,  the  humble-bee's  wise  drone; 

Nor  are  we  yet  bereft 
Of  one  whose  sagas  ever  at  his  will 

Can  answer  back  the  ocean,  tone  for  tone. 

But  he  whose  quickened  eye 
Saw  through  New  England's  life  her  inmost  spirit,  — 

Her  heart,  and  all  the  stays  on  which  it  leant,  — 
Returns  not,  since  he  laid  the  pencil  by 
Whose  mystic  touch  none  other  shall  inherit! 


HAWTHORNE.  2$ 

What  though  its  work  unfinished  lies  ?    Half -bent 
The  rainbow's  arch  fades  out  in  upper  air ; 

The  shining  cataract  half-way  down  the  height 
Breaks  into  mistj  the  haunting  strain,  that  fell 

On  listeners  unaware, 

Ends  incomplete,  but  through  the  starry  night 
The  ear  still  waits  for  what  it  did  not  tell. 
2 


THE    DISCOVERER. 

I  HAVE  a  little  kinsman 
Whose  earthly  summers  are  but  three, 
And  yet  a  voyager  is  he 
Greater  than  Drake  or  Frobisher, 
Than  all  their  peers  together! 
He  is  a  brave  discoverer, 
And,  far  beyond  the  tether 
Of  them  who  seek  the  frozen  Pole, 
Has  sailed  where  the  noiseless  surges  roll. 
Ay,  he  has  travelled  whither 
A  winged  pilot  steered  his  bark 
Through  the  portals  of  the  dark, 


THE    DISCOVERER.  27 

Past  hoary  Mimir's  well  and  tree, 
Across  the  unknown  sea. 

Suddenly,  in  his  fair  young  hour, 
Came  one  who  bore  a  flower, 
And  laid  it  in  his  dimpled  hand 

With  this  command : 
" Henceforth  thou  art  a  rover! 
Thou  must  make  a  voyage  far, 
Sail  beneath  the  evening  star, 
And  a  wondrous  land  discover." 
—  With  his  sweet  smile  innocent 

Our  little  kinsman  went. 

Since  that  time  no  word 

From  the  absent  has  been  heard. 

Who  can  tell 
How  he  fares,  or  answer  well 


28  THE    DISCOVERER. 

What  the  little  one  has  found 
Since  he  left  us,  outward  bound? 
Would  that  he  might  return! 
Then  should  we  learn 
From  the  pricking  of  his  chart 
How  the  skyey  roadways  part. 
Hush  !  does  not  the  baby  this  way  bring, 
To  lay  beside  this  severed  curl, 

Some  starry  offering 
Of  chrysolite  or  pearl  ? 

Ah,  no !  not  so  ! 
We  may  follow  on  his  track, 

But  he  comes  not  back. 

And  yet  I  dare  aver 
He  is  a  brave  discoverer 
Of  climes  his  elders  do.  not  know. 
He  has  more  learning  than  appears 


THE    DISCOVERER.  29 

On  the  scroll  of  twice  three  thousand  years, 

More  than  in  the  groves  is  taught, 

Or  from  furthest  Indies  brought; 

He  knows,  perchance,  how  spirits  fare, — 

What  shapes  the  angels  wear, 

What  is  their  guise  and  speech 

In  those  lands  beyond  our  reach, — 

And  his  eyes  behold 
Things  that  shall  never,  never  be  to  mortal  hearers  told. 


SISTER    BEATRICE. 

A  LEGEND  FROM  THE  "  SERMONES    DISCIPULI"  OF   JEAN 
HEROLT,  THE  DOMINICAN,  A.  D.   1518. 


SISTER    BEATRICE. 


A  CLOISTER  tale,  —  a  strange  and  ancient  thing 
Long  since  on  vellum  writ  in  gules  and  or: 

And  why  should  Chance  to  me  this  trover  bring 
From  the  grim  dust-heap  of  forgotten  lore, 

And  not  to  that  gray  bard  still  measuring 
His  laurelled  years  by  music's  golden  score, 

Nor  to  some  comrade  who  like  him  has  caught 

The  charm  of  lands  by  me  too  long  unsought  ? 

Why  not  to  one  who,  with  a  steadfast  eye, 

Ingathering  her  shadow  and  her  sheen, 
Saw  Venice  as  she  is,  and,  standing  nigh, 

Drew  from  the  life  that  old,  dismantled  queen? 
2*  c 


34  SISTER    BEATRICE. 

Or  to  the  poet  through  whom  I  well  descry 

Castile,  and  the  Campeador's  demesne? 
Or  to  that  eager  one  whose  quest  has  found 
Each  place  of  long  renown,  the  world  around; 

Whose  foot  has  rested  firm  on  either  hill, — 

The  sea-girt  height  where  glows  the  midnight  sun, 

And  wild  Parnassus;  whose  melodious  skill 
Has  left  no  song  untried,  no  wreath  unwon? 

Why  not  to  these?    Yet,  since  by  Fortune's  will 
This  quaint  task  given  me  I  must  not  shun, 

My  verse  shall  render,  fitly  as  it  may, 

An  old  church  legend,  meet  for  Christmas  Day. 

Once  on  a  time  (so  read  the  monkish  pages), 
Within  a  convent  —  that  doth  still  abide 

Even  as  it  stood  in  those  devouter  ages, 
Near  a  fair  city,  by  the  highway's  side  — 


SISTER    BEATRICE.  35 

There  dwelt  a  sisterhood  of  them  whose  wages 

Are  stored  in  heaven:  each  a  virgin  bride 
Of  Christ,  and  bounden  meekly  to  endure 
In  faith,  and  works,  and  chastity  most  pure. 

A  convent,  and  within  a  summer-land, 

Like  that  of  Browning  and  Boccaccio! 
Years  since,  my  greener  fancy  would  have  planned 

Its  station  thus:  it  should  have  had,  I  trow, 
A  square  and  flattened  bell-tower,  that  might  stand 

Above  deep-windowed  buildings  long  and  low, 
Closed  all  securely  by  a  vine-clung  wall, 
And  shadowed  on  one  side  by  cypress  tall; 

Within  the  gate,  a  garden  set  with  care: 

Box-bordered  plots,  where  peach  and  almond  trees 

Rained  blossoms  on  the  maidens  walking  there, 
Or  rustled  softly  in  the  summer  breeze; 


36  SISTER    BEATRICE. 

Here  were  sweet  jessamine  and  jonquil  rare, 

And  arbors  meet  for  pious  talk  at  ease ; 
There  must  have  been  a  dove-cote  too,  I  know, 
Where  white-winged  birds  like  spirits  come  and  go. 

Outside,  the  thrush  and  lark  their  music  made 
Beyond  the  olive-grove  at  dewy  morn; 

By  noon,  cicalas,  shrilling  in  the  shade 
Of  oak  and  ilex,  woke  the  peasant's  horn; 

And,  at  the  time  when  into  darkness  fade 
The  vineyards,  from  their  purple  depths  were  borne 

The  nightingale's  responses  to  the  prayer 

Of  those  sweet  saints  at  vespers,  meek  and  fair. 

Such  is  the  place  that,  with  the  hand  and  eye 
Which  are  the  joy  of  youth,  I  should  have  painted. 

Say  not,  who  look  thereon,  that  't  is  awry  — 
Like  nothing  real,  by  rhymesters'  use  attainted. 


SISTER    BEATRICE. 

Ah  well !  then  put  the  faulty  picture  by, 

And  help  me  draw  an  abbess  long  since  sainted. 
Think  of  your  love,  each  one,  and  thereby  guess 
The  fashion  of  this  lady's  beauteousness. 

For  in  this  convent  Sister  Beatrice, 
Of  all  her  nuns  the  fairest  and  most  young, 

Became,  through  grace  and  special  holiness, 
Their  sacred  head,  and  moved,  her  brood  among, 

Devote  d'ame  et  tres-feruente  au  service ; 

And  thrice  each  day,  their  hymns  and  Aves  sung, 

At  Mary's  altar  would  before  them  kneel, 

Keeping  her  vows  with  chaste  and  pious  zeal. 

Now  in  the  Holy  Church  there  was  a  clerk, 
A  godly-seeming  man  (as  such  there  be 

Whose  selfish  hearts  with  craft  and  guile  are  dark), 
Young,  gentle-phrased,  of  handsome  mien  and  free. 


38  SISTER    BEATRICE. 

His  passion  chose  this  maiden  for  its  mark, 

Begrudging  heaven  her  white  chastity, 
And  with  most  sacrilegious  art  the  while 
He  sought  her  trustful  nature  to  beguile. 

Oft  as  they  met,  with  subtle  hardihood 

He  still  more  archly  played  the  traitor's  part, 

And  strove  to  wake  that  murmur  in  her  blood 
That  times  the  pulses  of  a  woman's  heart; 

And  in  her  innocence  she  long  withstood 
The  secret    empter,  but  at  last  his  art 

Changed  all  her  tranquil  thoughts  to  love's  desire, 

Her  vestal  flame  to  earth's  unhallowed  fire. 

So  the  fair  governess,  o'ermastered,  gave 
Herself  to  the  destroyer,  yet  as  one 

That  slays,  in  pity,  her  sweet  self,  to  save 
Another  from  some  wretched  deed  undone  j 


SISTER    BEATRICE.  39 

But  when  she  found  her  heart  was  folly's  slave, 

She  sought  the  altar  which  her  steps  must  shun 
Thenceforth,  and  yielded  up  her  sacred  trust, 
Ere  tasting  that  false  fruit  which  turns  to  dust. 

One  eve  the  nuns  beheld  her  entering 
Alone,  as  if  for  prayer  beneath  the  rood, 

Their  chapel-shrine,  wherein  the  offering 

And  masterpiece  of  some  great  painter  stood, — 

The  Virgin  Mother,  without  plume  or  wing 
Ascending,  poised  in  rapt  beatitude, 

With  hands  crosswise,  and  intercession  mild 

For  all  who  crave  her  mercy  undefiled. 

There  Beatrice  —  poor,  guilty,  desperate  maid  — 
Took  from  her  belt  the  convent's  blessed  keys, 

And  with  them  on  the  altar  humbly  laid 
Her  missal,  uttering  such  words  as  these 


4O  SISTER    BEATRICE. 

(Her  eyes  cast  down,  and  all  her  soul  afraid): 

"  O  dearest  mistress,  hear  me  on  my  knees 
Confess  to  thee,  in  helplessness  and  shame, 
I  am  no  longer  fit  to  speak  thy  name. 

"Take  back  the  keys  wherewith  in  constancy 
Thy  house  and  altar  I  have  guarded  well! 

No  more  may  Beatrice  thy  servant  be, 

For  earthly  love  her  steps  must  needs  compel. 

Forget  me  in  this  sore  infirmity 
When  my  successor  here  her  beads  shall  tell." 

This  said,  the  girl  withdrew  her  as  she  might, 

And  with  her  lover  fled  that  selfsame  night  j 

Fled  out,  and  into  the  relentless  world 

Where  Love  abides,  but  Love  that  breedeth  Sorrow, 
Where  Purity  still  weeps  with  pinions  furled, 

And  Passion  lies  in  wait  her  all  to  borrow. 


SISTER   BEATRICE.  41 

From  such  a  height  to  such  abasement  whirled 

She  fled  that  night,  and  many  a  day  and  morrow 
Abode  indeed  with  him  for  whose  embrace 
She  bartered  heaven  and  her  hope  of  grace. 

O  fickle  will  and  pitiless  desire, 
Twin  wolves,  that  raven  in  a  lustful  heart 

And  spare  not  innocence,  nor  yield,  nor  tire, 
But  youth  from  joy  and  life  from  goodness  part; 

That  drag  an  unstained  victim  to  the  mire, 
Then  cast  it  soiled  and  hopeless  on  the  mart! 

Even  so  the  clerk,  once  having  dulled  his  longing, 

A  worse  thing  did  than  that  first  bitter  wronging. 

The  base  hind  left  her,  ruined  and  alone, 
Unknowing  by  what  craft  to  gain  her  bread 

In  the  hard  world  that  gives  to  Want  a  stone. 
What  marvel  that  she  drifted  whither  led 


42  SISTER    BEATRICE. 

The  current,  that  with  none  to  heed  her  moan 

She  reached  the  shore  where  life  on  husks  is  fed, 
Sank  down,  and,  in  the  strangeness  of  her  fall, 
Among  her  fellows  was  the  worst  of  all ! 

Thus  stranded,  her  fair  body,  consecrate 
To  holiness,  was  smutched  by  spoilers  rude, 

And  entered  all  the  seven  fiends  where  late 
Abode  a  seeming  angel,  pure  and  good. 

What  paths  she  followed  in  such  woful  state, 
By  want,  remorse,  and  the  world's  hate  pursued, 

Were  known  alone  to  them  whose  spacious  ken 

O'erlooks  not  even  the  poor  Magdalen. 

After  black  years  their  dismal  change  had  wrought 
Upon  her  beauty,  and  there  was  no  stay 

By  which  to  hold,  some  chance  or  yearning  brought 
Her  vagrant  feet  along  the  convent-way ; 


SISTER    BEATRICE.  43 

And  half  as  in  a  dream  there  came  a  thought 

(For  years  she  had  not  dared  to  think  or  pray) 
That  moved  her  there  to  bow  her  in  the  dust 
And  bear  no  more,  but  perish  as  she  must. 

Crouched  by  the  gate  she  waited,  it  is  told, 
Brooding  the  past  and  all  of  life  forlorn, 

Nor  dared  to  lift  her  pallid  face  and  old 
Against  the  passer's  pity  or  his  scorn ; 

And  there  perchance  had  ere  another  morn 
Died  of  her  shame  and  sorrows  manifold, 

But  that  a  portress  bade  her  pass  within 

For  solace  of  her  wretchedness  or  sin. 

To  whom  the  lost  one,  drinking  now  her  fill 

Of  woe  that  wakened  memories  made  more  drear, 

Said,  "  Was  there  not  one  Beatrice,  until 
Some  time  now  gone,  that  was  an  abbess  here?" 


44  •        SISTER   BEATRICE. 

"  That  was  ?  "  the  other  said.     "  Is  she  not  still 

The  convent's  head,  and  still  our  mistress  dear? 
Look !  even  now  she  comes  with  open  hand, 
The  purest,  saintliest  lady  in  the  land ! " 

And  Beatrice,  uplifting  then  her  eyes, 
Saw  her  own  self  (in  womanhood  divine, 

It  seemed)  draw  nigh,  with  holy  look  and  wise, 
The  aged  portress  leaving  at  a  sign. 

Even  while  she  marvelled  at  that  strange  disguise, 
There  stood  before  her,  radiant,  benign, 

The  blessed  Mother  of  Mercy,  all  aflame 

With  light,  as  if  from  Paradise  she  came  ! 

From  her  most  sacred  lips,  upon  the  ears 
Of  Beatrice,  these  words  of  wonder  fell : 

"  Daughter,  thy  sins  are  pardoned ;  dry  thy  tears, 
And  in  this  house  again  my  mercies  tell, 


SISTER    BEATRICE.  45 

For,  in  thy  stead,  myself  these  woful  years 

Have  governed  here  and  borne  thine  office  well. 
Take  back  the  keys :  save  thee  and  me  alone 
No  one  thy  fall  and  penance  yet  hath  known  !  " 

Even  then,  as  faded  out  that  loveliness, 
The  abbess,  looking  down,  herself  descried 

Clean-robed  and  spotless,  such  as  all  confess 
To  be  a  saint  and  fit  for  Heaven's  bride. 

So  ends  the  legend,  and  ye  well  may  guess 

(Who,  being  untempted,  walk  in  thoughtless  pride) 

God  of  his  grace  can  make  the  sinful  pure, 

And  while  earth  lasts  shall  mercy  still  endure. 


SEEKING  THE   MAY-FLOWER. 

THE  sweetest  sound  our  whole  year  round - 

'T  is  the  first  robin  of  the  spring ! 
The  song  of  the  full  orchard  choir 
Is  not  so  fine  a  thing. 

Glad  sights  are  common :  Nature  draws 

Her  random  pictures  through  the  year, 
But  oft  her  music  bids  us  long 

Remember  those  most  dear. 

To  me,  when  in  the  sudden  spring 

I  hear  the  earliest  robin's  lay, 
With  the  first  trill  there  comes  again 
One  picture  of  the  May. 


SEEKING    THE    MAY-FLOWER.  47 

The  veil  is  parted  wide,  and  lo, 

A  moment,  though  my  eyelids  close, 
Once  more  I  see  that  wooded  hill 
Where  the  arbutus  grows. 

I  see  the  village  dryad  kneel, 

Trailing  her  slender  fingers  through 
The  knotted  tendrils,  as  she  lifts 

Their  pink,  pale  flowers  to  view. 

Once  more  I  dare  to  stoop  beside 

The  dove-eyed  beauty  of  my  choice, 
And  long  to  touch  her  careless  hair, 
And  think  how  dear  her  voice. 

My  eager,  wandering  hands  assist 

With  fragrant  blooms  her  lap  to  fill, 
And  half  by  chance  they  meet  her  own, 
Half  by  our  young  hearts'  will. 


48  SEEKING   THE    MAY-FLOWER. 

Till,  at  the  last,  those  blossoms  won,  — 
Like  her,  so  pure,  so  sweet,  so  shy, — 
Upon  the  gray  and  lichened  rocks 
Close  at  her  feet  I  lie. 

Fresh  blows  the  breeze  through  hemlock-trees, 

The  fields  are  edged  with  green  below; 
And  naught  but  youth  and  hope  and  love 
We  know  or  care  to  know! 

Hark!  from  the  moss-clung  apple-bough, 
Beyond  the  tumbled  wall,  there  broke 
That  gurgling  music  of  the  May, — 
'T  was  the  first  robin  spoke ! 

I  heard  it,  ay,  and  heard  it  not, — 
For  little  then  my  glad  heart  wist 
What  toil  and  time  should  come  to  pass, 
And  what  delight  be  missed; 


SEEKING   THE    MAY-FLOWER.  49 

Nor  thought  thereafter,  year  by  year 
Hearing  that  fresh  yet  olden  song, 
To  yearn  for  unreturning  joys 
That  with  its  joy  belong. 


NEWS    FROM    OLYMPIAD 


?    Yes,  strange  tidings  from  the  city 

Which  pious  mortals  builded,  stone  by  stone, 
For  those  old  gods  of  Hellas,  half  in  pity 

Of  their  storm-mantled  height  and  dwelling  lone,  — 
Their  seat  upon  the  mountain  overhanging 

Where  Zeus  withdrew  behind  the  rolling  cloud, 
Where  crowned  Apollo  sang,  the  phorminx  twanging, 

And  at  Poseidon's  word  the  forests  bowed. 

Ay,  but  that  fated  day 
When  from  the  plain  Olympia  passed  away; 


*  "  One  after  the  other  the  figures  described  by  Pausanias  are  dragged  from 
the  earth.  Nike  has  been  found ;  the  head  of  Kladeos  is  there ;  Myrtilos  is 
announced,  and  Zeus  will  soon  emerge.  This  is  earnest  of  what  may  fol 
low."  — Despatch  to  the  London  Times. 


NEWS    FROM    OLYMPIA.  51 

When  ceased  the  oracles,  and  long  unwept 
Amid  their  fanes  the  gods  deserted  fell, 
While  sacerdotal  ages,  as  they  slept, 
The  ruin  covered  well ! 

The  pale  Jew  flung  his  cross,  thus  one  has  written, 

Among  them  as  they  sat  at  the  high  feast, 
And  saw  the  gods,  before  that  token  smitten, 

Fade  slowly,  while  His  presence  still  increased, 
Until  the  seas  Ionian  and  ^Egaean 

Gave  out  a  cry  that  Pan  himself  was  dead, 
And  all  was  still :  thenceforth  no  more  the  paean, 

No  more  by  men  the  prayer  to  Zeus  was  said. 

Sank,  like  a  falling  star, 
Hephaistos  in  the  Lemnian  waters  far; 
The  silvery  Huntress  fled  the  darkened  sky; 
Dim  grew  Athene's  helm,  Apollo's  crown ; 


52  NEWS    FROM   OLYMPIA. 

Alpheios'  nymphs  stood  wan  and  trembling  by 
When  Hera's  fane  went  down. 

News !   what  news  ?    Has  it  in  truth  then  ended, 

The  term  appointed  for  that  wondrous  sleep  ? 
Has  Earth  so  well  her  fairest  brood  defended 

Within  her  bosom  ?    Was  their  slumber  deep 
Not  this  our  dreamless  rest  that  knows  no  waking, 

But  that  to  which  the  years  are  as  a  day? 
What !  are  they  coming  back,  their  prison  breaking, 

These  gods  of  Homer's  chant,  of  Pindar's  lay? 

Are  they  coming  back  in  might, 
Olympia's  gods,  to  claim  their  ancient  right? 
Shall  then  the  sacred  majesty  of  old, 
The  grace  that  holy  was,  the  noble  rage, 
Temper  our  strife,  abate  our  greed  for  gold, 

Make  fine  the  modern  age  ? 


NEWS    FROM    OLYMPIA.  53 

Yes,  they  are  coming  back,  to  light  returning! 

Bold  are  the  hearts  and  void  of  fear  the  hands 
That  toil,  the  lords  of  War  and  Spoil  unurning, 

Or  of  their  sisters  fair  that  break  the  bands; 
That  loose  the  sovran  mistress  of  desire, 

Queen  Aphrodite,  to  possess  the  earth 
Once  more  ;  that  dare  renew  dread  Hera's  ire, 

And  rouse  old  Pan  to  wantonness  of  mirth. 

The  herald  Nik£,  first, 
From  the  dim  resting-place  unfettered  burst, 
Winged  victor  over  fate  and  time  and  death ! 
Zeus  follows  next,  and  all  his  children  then ; 
Phoibos  awakes  and  draws  a  joyous  breath, 

And  Love  returns  to  men. 

Ah,  let  them  come,  the  glorious  Immortals, 
Rulers  no  more,  but  with  mankind  to  dwell, 


54  NEWS    FROM    OLYMPIA. 

The  dear  companions  of  our  hearts  and  portals, 
Voiceless,  unworshipped,  yet  beloved  right  well ! 

Pallas  shall  sit  enthroned  in  wisdom's  station, 
Eros  and  Psyche  be  forever  wed, 

And  still  the  primal  loveliest  creation 

Yield  new  delight  from  ancient  beauty  bred. 

Triumphant  as  of  old, 

Changeless  while  Art  and  Song  their  warrant  hold, 
The  visions  of  our  childhood  haunt  us  still, 
Still  Hellas  sways  us  with  her  charm  supreme. 
The  morn  is  past,  but  Man  has  not  the  will 

To  banish  yet  the  dream. 


THE   MONUMENT   OF   GREELEY. 

READ  AT  THE  UNVEILING  OF  THE    BUST   SURMOUNTING 

THE  PRINTERS'   MONUMENT   TO   HORACE  GREELEY, 

GREENWOOD   CEMETERY,   DECEMBER  4,  1876. 


THE   MONUMENT  OF  GREELEY. 

ONCE  more,  dear  mother  Earth,  we  stand 

In  reverence  where  thy  bounty  gave 
Our  brother,  yielded  to  thy  hand, 

The  sweet  protection  of  the  grave ! 
Well  hast  thou  soothed  him  through  the  years, 

The  years  our  love  and  sorrow  number, — 
And  with  thy  smiles,  and  with  thy  tears, 

Made  green  and  fair  his  place  of  slumber. 

Thine  be  the  keeping  of  that  trust; 

And  ours  this  image,  born  of  Art 
To  shine  above  his  hidden  dust, 

What  time  the  sunrise  breezes  part 

3* 


58  THE  MONUMENT  OF  GREELEY. 

The  trees,  and  with  new  light  enwreathe 
Yon  head,  —  until  the  lips  are  golden, 

And  from  them  music  seems  to  breathe 
As  from  the  desert  statue  olden. 

Would  it  were  so !   that  now  we  might 

Hear  once  his  uttered  voice  again, 
Or  hold  him  present  to  our  sight, 

Nor  reach  with  empty  hands  and  vain ! 
O  that,  from  some  far  place,  were  heard 

One  cadence  of  his  speech  returning, — 
A  whispered  tone,  a  single  word, 

Sent  back  in  answer  to  our  yearning! 

It  may  not  be?    What  then  the  spark, 
The  essence  which  illumed  the  whole 

And  made  his  living  form  its  mark 
And  outward  likeness?    What  the  soul 


THE  MONUMENT  OF  GREELEY.  59 

That  warmed  the  heart  and  poised  the  head, 
And  spoke  the  thoughts  we  now  inherit? 

Bright  force  of  fire  and  ether  bred, — 
Where  art  thou  now,  elusive  Spirit? 

Where,  now,  the  sunburst  of  a  love 

Which  blended  still  with  sudden  wrath 
To  nerve  the  righteous  hand  that  strove, 

And  blaze  in  the  oppressor's  path? 
Fair  Earth,  our  dust  is  thine  indeed ! 

Too  soon  he  reached  the  voiceless  portal, — 
That  whither  leads  ?    Where  lies  the  mead 

He  gained,  and  knew  himself  immortal  ? 

Or,  tell  us,  on  what  distant  star, 
Where  even  as  here  are  toil  and  wrong, 

With  strength  renewed  he  lifts  afar 
A  voice  of  aid,  a  war-cry  strong? 


60  THE  MONUMENT  OF  GREELEY. 

What  fruit,  this  stern  Olympiad  past, 
Has  that  rich  nature  elsewhere  yielded, 

What  conquest  gained  and  knowledge  vast, 
What  kindred  beings  loved  and  shielded! 

Why  seek  to  know?  he  little  sought, 

Himself,  to  lift  the  close-drawn  veil, 
Nor  for  his  own  salvation  wrought 

And  pleaded,  ay,  and  wore  his  mail; 
No  selfish  grasp  of  life,  no  fear, 

Won  for  mankind  his  ceaseless  caring, 
But  for  themselves  he  held  them  dear, — 

Their  birth  and  shrouded  exit  sharing. 

Not  his  the  feverish  will  to  live 
A  sunnier  life,  a  longer  space, 

Save  that  the  Eternal  Law  might  give 
The  boon  in  common  to  his  race. 


THE  MONUMENT  OF  GREELEY.  6l 

Earth,  't  was  thy  heaven  he  loved,  and  best 
Thy  precious  offspring,  man  and  woman, 

And  labor  for  them  seemed  but  rest 
To  him,  whose  nature  was  so  human. 

Even  here  his  spirit  haply  longed 

To  stay,  remembered  by  our  kind, 
And  where  the  haunts  of  men  are  thronged 

Move  yet  among  them.     Seek  and  find 
A  presence,  though  his  voice  has  ceased, 

Still,  even  where  we  dwell,  remaining, 
With  all  its  tenderest  thrills  increased 

And  all  it  cared  to  ask  obtaining. 

List,  how  the  varied  things  that  took 

The  impress  of  his  passion  rare 
Make  answer!     To  the  roadways  look, 

The  watered  vales,  the  hamlets  fair. 


62  THE  MONUMENT  OF   GREELEY. 

He  walks  unseen  the  living  woods, 
The  fields,  the  town,  the  shaded  borough, 

And  in  the  pastoral  solitudes 
Delights  to  view  the  lengthening  furrow. 

The  faithful  East  that  cradled  him, 

Still,  while  she  deems  her  nursling  sleeps, 
Sits  by  his  couch  with  vision  dim ; 

The  plenteous  West  his  feast-day  keeps; 
The  wistful  South  recalls  the  ways 

Of  one  who  in  his  love  enwound  her, 
And  stayed  her,  in  the  evil  days, 

With  arms  of  comfort  thrown  around  her. 

He  lives  wherever  men  to  men 
In  perilous  hours  his  words  repeat, 

Where  clangs  the  forge,  where  glides  the  pen, 
Where  toil  and  traffic  crowd  the  street; 


THE  MONUMENT  OF  GREELEY.  63 

And  in  whatever  time  or  place 

Earth's  purest  souls  their  purpose  strengthen, 
Down  the  broad  pathway  of  his  race 

The  shadow  of  his  name  shall  lengthen. 

"  Still  with  us ! "  all  the  liegemen  cry 

Who  read  his  heart  and  held  him  dear; 
The  hills  declare  "  He  shall  not  die !  " 

The  prairies  answer  "  He  is  here ! " 
Immortal  thus,  no  dread  of  fate 

Be  ours,  no  vain  memento  mori : 
Life,  Life,  not  Death,  we  celebrate, — 

A  lasting  presence  touched  with  glory. 

The  star  may  vanish, — but  a  ray, 
Sent  forth,  what  mandate  can  recall? 

The  circling  wave  still  keeps  its  way 
That  marked  a  turret's  seaward  fall ; 


64  THE  MONUMENT  OF  GREELEY. 

The  least  of  music's  uttered  strains 
Is  part  of  Nature's  voice  forever ; 

And  aye  beyond  the  grave  remains 
The  great,  the  good  man's  high  endeavor! 

Well  may  the  brooding  Earth  retake 

The  form  we  knew,  to  be  a  part 
Of  bloom  and  herbage,  fern  and  brake, 

New  lives  that  from  her  being  start. 
Naught  of  the  soul  shall  there  remain : 

They  came  on  void  and  darkness  solely 
Who  the  veiled  Spirit  sought  in  vain 

Within  the  temple's  shrine  Most  Holy. 

That,  that,  has  found  again  the  source 
From  which  itself  to  us  was  lent : 

The  Power  that,  in  perpetual  course, 
Makes  of  the  dust  an  instrument 


THE  MONUMENT  OF  GREELEY.  65 

Supreme ;  the  universal  Soul ; 

The  current  infinite  and  single 
Wherein,  as  ages  onward  roll, 

Life,  Thought,  and  Will  forever  mingle. 

What  more  is  left,  to  keep  our  hold 

On  him  who  was  so  true  and  strong? 
This  semblance,  raised  above  the  mould 

With  offerings  of  word  and  song, 
That  men  may  teach,  in  aftertime, 

Their  sons  how  goodness  marked  the  features 
Of  one  whose  life  was  made  sublime 

By  service  for  his  brother  creatures. 

And  last,  and  lordliest,  his  fame, — 

A  station  in  the  sacred  line 
Of  heroes  that  have  left  a  name 

We  conjure  with,  —  a  place  divine, 


66  THE  MONUMENT  OF  GREELEY. 

Since,  in  the  world's  eternal  plan, 

Divinity  itself  is  given, 
To  him  who  lives  or  dies  for  Man 

And  looks  within  his  soul  for  Heaven. 


KEARNY  AT  SEVEN   PINES. 

SO  that  soldierly  legend  is  still  on  its  journey, — 

That  story  of  Kearny  who  knew  not  to  yield  ! 
'T  was  the  day  when  with  Jameson,  fierce  Berry,  and 

Birney, 

Against  twenty  thousand  he  rallied  the  field. 
Where  the  red  volleys  poured,  where  the  clamor  rose 

highest, 
Where  the  dead  lay  in  clumps  through  the  dwarf  oak 

and  pine, 

Where  the  aim  from  the  thicket  was  surest  and  nighest, — 
No  charge  like  Phil  Kearny's  along  the  whole  line. 

When  the  battle  went  ill,  and  the  bravest  were  solemn, 
Near  the  dark  Seven  Pines,  where  we  still  held  our 
ground, 


68  KEARNY    AT    SEVEN    PINES. 

He  rode  down  the  length  of  the  withering  column, 

And  his  heart  at  our  war-cry  leapt  up  with  a  bound ; 
He  snuffed,  like  his  charger,  the  wind  of  the  powder,  — 

His  sword  waved  us  on  and  we  answered  the  sign: 
Loud  our  cheer  as  we  rushed,  but  his  laugh  rang  the 

louder, 

"  There  's  the  devil's  own  fun,  boys,  along  the  whole 
line  ! " 

How  he  strode  his  brown  steed !    How  we  saw  his  blade 
brighten 

In  the  one  hand  still  left,  —  and  the  reins  in  his  teeth  ! 
He  laughed  like  a  boy  when  the  holidays  heighten, 

But  a  soldier's  glance  shot  from  his  visor  beneath. 
Up  came  the  reserves  to  the  mellay  infernal, 

Asking  where  to  go  in,  —  through  the  clearing  or  pine  ? 
"  O,  anywhere  !     Forward  !     'T  is  all  the  same,  Colonel : 

You  '11  find  lovely  fighting  along  the  whole  line  !  " 


KEARNY    AT    SEVEN    PINES.  69 

O,  evil  the  black  shroud  of  night  at  Chantilly, 

That  hid  him  from  sight  of  his  brave  men  and  tried ! 
Foul,  foul  sped  the  bullet  that  clipped  the  white  lily, 

The  flower  of  our  knighthood,  the  whole  army's  pride ! 
Yet  we  dream  that  he  still,  —  in  that  shadowy  region 

Where  the  dead  form  their  ranks  at  the  wan  drummer's 

sign,— 
Rides  on,  as  of  old,  down  the  length  of  his  legion, 

And  the  word  still  is  Forward !  along  the  whole  line. 


CUSTER. 

WHAT  I  shall  that  sudden  blade 

Leap  out  no  more  ? 
No  more  thy  hand  be  laid 
Upon  the  sword-hilt,  smiting  sore? 

O  for  another  such 
The  charger's  rein  to  clutch, — 
One  equal  voice  to  summon  victory, 

Sounding  thy  battle-cry, 
Brave  darling  of  the  soldiers'  choice! 
Would  there  were  one  more  voice! 

O  gallant  charge,  too  bold! 
O  fierce,  imperious  greed 
To  pierce  the  clouds  that  in  their  darkness  hold 


CUSTER. 

Slaughter  of  man  and  steed ! 
Now,  stark  and  cold, 
Among  thy  fallen  braves  thou  liest, 
And  even  with  thy  blood  defiest 

The  wolfish  foe : 
But  ah,  thou  liest  low, 
And  all  our  birthday  song  is  hushed  indeed! 

Young  lion  of  the  plain, 

Thou  of  the  tawny  mane! 
Hotly  the  soldiers'  hearts  shall  beat, 

Their  mouths  thy  death  repeat, 
Their  vengeance  seek  the  trail  again 

Where  thy  red  doomsmen  be; 
But  on  the  charge  no  more  shall  stream 
Thy  hair,  —  no  more  thy  sabre  gleam,  — 

No  more  ring  out  thy  battle-shout, 
Thy  cry  of  victory! 


72  CUSTER. 

Not  when  a  hero  falls 

The  sound  a  world  appalls : 

For  while  we  plant  his  cross 
There  is  a  glory,  even  in  the  loss : 

But  when  some  craven  heart 

From  honor  dares  to  part, 
Then,  then,  the  groan,  the  blanching  cheek, 

And  men  in  whispers  speak, 
Nor  kith  nor  country  dare  reclaim 

From  the  black  depths  his  name. 

Thou,  wild  young  warrior,  rest, 
By  all  the  prairie  winds  caressed! 

Swift  was  thy  dying  pang; 

Even  as  the  war-cry  rang 
Thy  deathless  spirit  mounted  high 

And  sought  Columbia's  sky :  — 


CUSTER.  73 

There,  to  the  northward  far, 

Shines  a  new  star, 
And  from  it  blazes  down 
The  light  of  thy  renown ! 


July  10, 1876. 


THE  COMEDIAN'S   LAST  NIGHT. 

NOT  yet!    No,  no,  —  you  would  not  quote 

That  meanest  of  the  critic's  gags? 
'T  was  surely  not  of  me  they  wrote 

Those  words,  too  late  the  veteran  lags: 
'T  is  not  so  very  late  with  me  j 

I  'm  not  so  old  as  that,  you  know, 
Though  work  and  trouble  —  as  you  see  — 

(Not  years)  have  brought  me  somewhat  low. 
I  failed,  you  say  ?    No,  no,  not  yet ! 

Or,  if  I  did,  —  with  such  a  past, 
Where  is  the  man  would  have  me  quit 

Without  one  triumph  at  the  last? 

But  one  night  more,  —  a  little  thing 
To  you,  —  I  swear  't  is  all  I  ask ! 


THE  COMEDIAN'S  LAST  NIGHT.  75 

Once  more  to  make  the  wide  house  ring, — 

To  tread  the  boards,  to  wear  the  mask, 
To  move  the  coldest  as  of  yore, 

To  make  them  laugh,  to  make  them  cry, 
To  be  —  to  be  myself  once  more, 

And  then,  if  must  be,  let  me  die ! 
The  prompter's  bell !    I  'm  here,  you  see  : 

By  Heaven,  friends,  you  '11  break  my  heart ! 
Nat  Gosling's  called:  let  be,  let  be, — 

None  but  myself  shall  act  the  part ! 

Yes,  thank  you,  boy,  I  '11  take  your  chair 

One  moment,  while  I  catch  my  breath. 
D'  ye  hear  the  noise  they  're  making  there  ? 

'T  would  warm  a  player's  heart  in  death. 
How  say  you  now?    Whate'er  they  write, 

We  Ve  put  that  bitter  gibe  to  shame ; 
I  knew,  I  knew  there  burned  to-night 

Within  my  soul  the  olden  flame ! 


76  THE  COMEDIAN'S  LAST  NIGHT. 

Stand  off  a  bit :  that  final  round,  — 

I  'd  hear  it  ere  it  dies  away 
The  last,  last  time  !  —  there  's  no  more  sound 

So  end  the  player  and  the  play. 

The  house  is  cleared.    My  senses  swim ; 

I  shall  be  better,  though,  anon,  — 
One  stumbles  when  the  lights  are  dim, — 

'T  is  growing  late :   we  must  be  gone. 
Well,  braver  luck  than  mine,  old  friends! 

A  little  work  and  fame  are  ours 
While  Heaven  health  and  fortune  lends, 

And  then  —  the  coffin  and  the  flowers ! 
These  scattered  garments  ?   let  them  lie : 

Some  fresher  actor  (!'  m  not  vain) 
Will  dress  anew  the  part ;  —  but  I  — 

/  shall  not  put  them  on  again. 

November  17,  1875. 


ALL    IN    A    LIFETIME. 


THOU  shalt  have  sun  and  shower  from-  heaven  above, 
Thou  shalt  have  flower  and  thorn  from  earth  below, 

Thine  shall  be  foe  to  hate  and  friend  to  love, 
Pleasures  that  others  gain,  the  ills  they  know, — 
And  all  in  a  lifetime. 

Hast  thou  a  golden  day,  a  starlit  night, 
Mirth,  and  music,  and  love  without  alloy? 

Leave  no  drop  undrunken  of  thy  delight: 
Sorrow  and  shadow  follow  on  thy  joy. 

'T  is  all  in  a  lifetime. 


78  ALL    IN    A    LIFETIME. 

What  if  the  battle  end  and  thou  hast  lost? 

Others  have  lost  the  battles  thou  hast  won; 
Haste  thee,  bind  thy  wounds,  nor  count  the  cost 

Over  the  field  will  rise  to-morrow's  sun. 
'T  is  all  in  a  lifetime. 


Laugh  at  the  braggart  sneer,  the  open  scorn,  — 
'Ware  of  the  secret  stab,  the  slanderous  lie : 

For  seventy  years  of  turmoil  thou  wast  born, 
Bitter  and  sweet  are  thine  till  these  go  by. 
Tis  all  in  a  lifetime. 

40 

Reckon  thy  voyage  well,  and  spread  the  sail, — 
Wind  and  calm  and  current  shall  warp  thy  way; 

Compass  shall  set  thee  false,  and  chart  shall  fail; 
Ever  the  waves  will  use  thee  for  their  play. 
'T  is  all  in  a  lifetime. 


ALL   IN   A   LIFETIME.  79 

Thousands  of  years  agone  were  chance  and  change, 
Thousands  of  ages  hence  the  same  shall  be; 

Naught  of  thy  joy  and  grief  is  new  or  strange: 
Gather  apace  the  good  that  falls  to  thee ! 
'T  is  all  in  a  lifetime ! 


THE  SKULL  IN  THE  GOLD  DRIFT. 

WHAT  ho !  dumb  jester,  cease  to  grin  and  mask  it ! 

Grim  courier,  thou  hast  stayed  upon  the  road! 
Yield  up  the  secret  of  this  battered  casket, 

This  shard,  where  once  a  living  soul  abode ! 
What  dost  thou  here?  how  long  hast  lain  imbedded 

In  crystal  sands,  the  drift  of  Time's  despair ; 
Thine  earth  to  earth  with  aureate  dower  wedded, 

Thy  parts  all  changed  to  something  rich  and  rare  ? 

Voiceless  thou  art,  and  yet  a  revelation 

Of  that  most  ancient  world  beneath  the  new; 

But  who  shall  guess  thy  race,  thy  name  and  station, 
JEons  and  aeons  ere  these  bowlders  grew? 


THE  SKULL  IN  THE  GOLD  DRIFT.    8l 

What  alchemy  can  make  thy  visage  liker 
Its  untransmuted  shape,  thy  flesh  restore, 

Resolve  to  blood  again  thy  golden  ichor, 
Possess  thee  of  the  life  thou  hadst  before? 

Before!    And  when?    What  ages  immemorial 

Have  passed  since  daylight  fell  where  thou  dost  sleep  ! 
What  molten  strata,  ay,  and  flotsam  boreal, 

Have  shielded  well  thy  rest,  and  pressed  thee  deep ! 
Thou  little  wist  what  mighty  floods  descended, 

How  sprawled  the  armored  monsters  in  their  camp, 
Nor  heardest,  when  the  watery  cycle  ended, 

The  mastodon  and  mammoth  o'er  thee  tramp. 

How  seemed  this  globe  of  ours  when  thou  didst  scan  it  ? 

When,  in  its  lusty  youth,  there  sprang  to  birth 
All  that  hath  life,  unnurtured,  and  the  planet 

Was  paradise,  the  true  Saturnian  Earth ! 

4*  p 


82    THE  SKULL  IN  THE  GOLD  DRIFT. 

Far  toward  the  poles  was  stretched  the  happy  garden; 

Earth  kept  it  fair  by  warmth  from  her  own  breast; 
Toil  had  not  come  to  dwarf  her  sons  and  harden ; 

No  crime  (there  was  no  want)  perturbed  their  rest. 

How  lived  thy  kind?    Was  there  no  duty  blended 

With  all  their  toilless  joy,  —  no  grand  desire? 
Perchance  as  shepherds  on  the  meads  they  tended 

Their  flocks,  and  knew  the  pastoral  pipe  and  lyre; 
Until  a  hundred  happy  generations, 

Whose  birth  and  death  had  neither  pain  nor  fear, 
At  last,  in  riper  ages,  brought  the  nations 

To  modes  which  we  renew  who  greet  thee  here. 

How  stately  then  they  built  their  royal  cities, 
With  what  strong  engines  speeded  to  and  fro; 

What  music  thrilled  their  souls ;  what  poets'  ditties 
Made  youth  with  love,  and  age  with  honor  glow! 


THE  SKULL  IN  THE  GOLD  DRIFT.          83 

And  had  they  then  their  Homer,  Kepler,  Bacon? 

Did  some  Columbus  find  an  unknown  clime? 
Was  there  an  archetypal  Christ,  forsaken 

Of  those  he  died  to  save,  in  that  far  time? 

When  came  the  end?    What  terrible  convulsion 

Heaved  from  within  the  Earth's  distended  shell? 
What  pent-up  demons,  by  their  fierce  repulsion, 

Made  of  that  sunlit  crust  a  sunless  hell  ? 
How,  when  the  hour  was  ripe,  those  deathful  forces 

In  one  resistless  doom  o'erwhelmed  ye  all ; 
Ingulfed  the  seas  and  dried  the  river  courses, 

And  made  the  forests  and  the  cities  fall ! 

Ah  me !  with  what  a  sudden,  dreadful  thunder 
The  whole  round  world  was  split  from  pole  to  pole ! 

Down  sank  the  continents,  the  waters  under, 
And  fire  burst  forth  where  now  the  oceans  roll ; 


84    THE  SKULL  IN  THE  GOLD  DRIFT. 

Of  those  wan  flames  the  dismal  exhalations 
Stifled,  anon,  each  living  creature's  breath, 

Dear  life  was  driven  from  its  utmost  stations, 
And  seethed  beneath  the  smoking  pall  of  death? 

Then  brawling  leapt  full  height  yon  helme'd  giants; 

The  proud  Sierras  on  the  skies  laid  hold; 
Their  watch  and  ward  have  bidden  time  defiance, 

Guarding  thy  grave  amid  the  sands  of  gold. 
Thy  kind  was  then  no  more!     What  untold  ages, 

Ere  Man,  renewed  from  earth  by  slow  degrees, 
Woke  to  the  strife  he  now  with  Nature  wages 

O'er  ruder  lands  and  more  tempestuous  seas. 

How  poor  the  gold,  that  made  thy  burial  splendid, 
Beside  one  single  annal  of  thy  race, 

One  implement,  one  fragment  that  attended 
Thy  life  — which  now  hath  left  not  even  a  trace! 


THE  SKULL  IN  THE  GOLD  DRIFT.          85 

From  the  soul's  realm  awhile  recall  thy  spirit, 
See  how  the  land  is  spread,  how  flows  the  main, 

The  tribes  that  in  thy  stead  the  globe  inherit, 
Their  grand  unrest,  their  eager  joy  and  pain. 

Beneath  our  feet  a  thousand  ages  moulder, 

Grayer  our  skies  than  thine,  the  winds  more  chill ; 
Thine  the  young  world,  and  ours  the  hoarier,  colder, 

But  Man's  unfaltering  heart  is  dauntless  still. 
And  yet — and  yet  like  thine  his  solemn  story; 

Grope  where  he  will,  transition  lies  before; 
We,  too,  must  pass!  our  wisdom,  works,  and  glory 

In  turn  shall  yield,  and  change,  and  be  no  more. 


SONG  FROM  A   DRAMA. 

I  KNOW  not  if  moonlight  or  starlight 

Be  soft  on  the  land  and  the  sea, — 
I  catch  but  the  near  light,  the  far  light, 

Of  eyes  that  are  burning  for  me  j 
The  scent  of  the  night,  of  the  roses, 

May  burden  the  air  for  thee,  Sweet, — 
'T  is  only  the  breath  of  thy  sighing 

I  know,  as  I  lie  at  thy  feet 

The  winds  may  be  sobbing  or  singing, 
Their  touch  may  be  fervent  or  cold, 

The  night-bells  may  toll  or  be  ringing, — 
I  care  not,  while  thee  I  enfold! 


SONG    FROM    A    DRAMA.  8/ 

The  feast  may  go  on,  and  the  music 

Be  scattered  in  ecstasy  round, — 
Thy  whisper,  "  I  love  thee !     I  love  thee  ! " 

Hath  flooded  my  soul  with  its  sound. 

I  think  not  of  time  that  is  flying, 

How  short  is  the  hour  I  have  won, 
How  near  is  this  living  to  dying, 

How  the  shadow  still  follows  the  sun; 
There  is  naught  upon  earth,  no  desire, 

Worth  a  thought,  though  't  were  had  by  a  sign  ! 
I  love  thee !  I  love  thee !  bring  nigher 

Thy  spirit,  thy  kisses,  to  mine ! 


THE    SUN-DIAL. 

"  Horas  non  numero  nisi  serenas." 

ONLY  the  sunny  hours     * 

Are  numbered  here, — 
No  winter-time  that  lowers, 

No  twilight  drear. 
But  from  a  golden  sky 

When  sunbeams  fall, 
Though  the  bright  moments  fly, - 

They  're  counted  all. 

My  heart  its  transient  woe 

Remembers  not ! 
The  ills  of  long  ago 

Are  half  forgot; 


THE    SUN-DIAL  89 

But  Childhood's  round  of  bliss, 

Youth's  tender  thrill, 
Hope's  whisper,  Love's  first  kiss, — 

They  haunt  me  still ! 

Sorrows  are  everywhere, 

Joys  —  all  too  few ! 
Have  we  not  had  our  share 

Of  pleasure  too  ? 
No  Past  the  glad  heart  cowers, 

No  memories  dark; 
Only  the  sunny  hours 

The  dial  mark. 


MAD  R  I  GAL. 

DORUS  TO   LYCORIS,  WHO   REPROVED  HIM  FOR  INCONSTANCY. 

WHY  should  I  constant  be? 
The  bird  in  yonder  tree, 

This  leafy  summer, 
Hath  not  his  last  year's  mate, 
Nor  dreads  to  venture  fate 

With  a  new-comer. 

Why  should  I  fear  to  sip 
The  sweets  of  each  red  lip? 

In  every  bower 
The  roving  bee  may  taste 
(Lest  aught  should  run  to  waste) 

Each  fresh-blown  flower. 


MADRIGAL.  91 

The  trickling  rain  doth  fall 
Upon  us  one  and  all ; 

The  south-wind  kisses 
The  saucy  milkmaid's  cheek, 
The  nun's,  demure  and  meek, 

Nor  any  misses. 

Then  ask  no  more  of  me 
That  I  should  constant  be, 

Nor  eke  desire  it ; 
Take  not  such  idle  pains 
To  hold  our  love  in  chains, 

Nor  coax,  nor  hire  it. 

Be  all  things  in  thyself, — 
A  sprite,  a  tricksy  elf, 
Forever  changing, 
So  that  thy  latest  mood 


92  MADRIGAL. 

May  ever  bring  new  food 
To  Fancy  ranging. 

Forget  what  thou  wast  first, 
And  as  I  loved  thee  erst 

In  soul  and  feature, 
I  '11  love  thee  out  of  mind 
When  each  new  morn  shall  find 

Thee  a  new  creature. 


CLARA    MORRIS. 

TOUCHED  by  the  fervor  of  her  art, 

No  flaws  to-night  discover ! 
Her  judge  shall  be  the  people's  heart, 

This  Western  world  her  lover. 
The  secret  given  to  her  alone 

No  frigid  schoolman  taught  her :  — 
Once  more  returning,  dearer  grown, 

We  greet  thee,  Passion's  daughter ! 


WITH  A  SPRIG  OF  HEATHER. 

TO  THE  LADY  WHO  SENT  ME  A  JAR  OF  HYMETTIAN  HONEY. 

LADY,  had  the  lot  been  mine 

That  befell  the  sage  divine, 

Near  Hymettus  to  be  bred, 

And  in  sleep  on  honey  fed, 

I  would  send  to  you,  be  sure, 

Rhythmic  verses — tuneful,  pure, 

Such  as  flowed  when  Greece  was  young, 

And  the  Attic  songs  were  sung ; 

I  would  take  your  little  jar, 

Filled  with  sweetness  from  afar,  — 

Brown  as  amber,  bright  as  gold, 

Breathing  odors  manifold,  — 

And  would  thank  you,  sip  by  sip, 


WITH    A    SPRIG    OF    HEATHER.  95 

With  the  classic  honeyed  lip. 
But  the  gods  did  not  befriend 
Me  in  childhood's  sleep,  nor  send, 
One  by  one,  their  laden  bees, 
That  I  now  might  sing  at  ease 
With  the  winsome  voice  and  word 
In  this  age  too  seldom  heard. 
(Had  they  the  Atlantic  crost, 
Half  their  treasure  had  been  lost !) 
Changed  the  time,  and  gone  the  art 
Of  the  glad  Athenian  heart. 
Take  you,  then,  in  turn,  I  pray, 
For  your  gift,  this  little  spray, — 
Heather  from  a  breezy  hill 
That  of  Burns  doth  whisper  still. 
On  the  soil  where  this  was  bred 
The  rapt  ploughman  laid  his  head, 
Sang,  and  looking  to  the  sky 


96  WITH    A   SPRIG   OF   HEATHER, 

Saw  the  Muses  hovering  nigh. 
From  the  air  and  from  the  gorse 
Scotland's  sweetness  took  its  source;' 
Precious  still  your  jar,  you  see, 
Though  its  honey  stays  with  me. 


THE    LORD'S-DAY    GALE 

BAY  ST.  LAWRENCE,  AUGUST,  1873. 


THE   LORD'S-DAY   GALE. 

IN  Gloucester  port  lie  fishing  craft,  — 

More  stanch  and  trim  were  never  seen  : 
They  are  sharp  before  and  sheer  abaft, 

And  true  their  lines  the  masts  between. 
Along  the  wharves  of  Gloucester  Town 
Their  fares  are  lightly  handed  down, 
And  the  laden  flakes  to  sunward  lean. 

Well  know  the  men  each  cruising-ground, 
And  where  the  cod  and  mackerel  be  ; 

Old  Eastern  Point  the  schooners  round 
And  leave  Cape  Ann  on  the  larboard  lee 

Sound  are  the  planks,  the  hearts  are  bold, 


100  THE   LORD'S-DAY   GALE. 

That  brave  December's  surges  cold 
On  Georges'  shoals  in  the  outer  sea. 

And  some  must  sail  to  the  banks  far  north 
And  set  their  trawls  for  the  hungry  cod, — 

In  the  ghostly  fog  creep  back  and  forth 
By  shrouded  paths  no  foot  hath  trodj 

Upon  the  crews  the  ice-winds  blow, 

The  bitter  sleet,  the  frozen  snow, — 
Their  lives  are  in  the  hand  of  God  I 

New  England!  New  England! 

Needs  sail  they  must,  so  brave  and  poor, 
Or  June  be  warm  or  Winter  storm, 

Lest  a  wolf  gnaw  through  the  cottage-door! 
Three  weeks  at  home,  three  long  months  gone, 
While  the  patient  goodwives  sleep  alone, 

And  wake  to  hear  the  breakers  roar. 


THE    LORD'S -:D^T"  GALE.    /  IOI 

The  Grand  Bank  gathers  Jin*  its  -dead,  — 
The  deep  sea-sand  is  their  winding-sheet; 

Who  does  not  Georges'  billows  dread 
That  dash  together  the  drifting  fleet? 

Who  does  not  long  to  hear,  in  May, 

The  pleasant  wash  of  Saint  Lawrence  Bay, 
The  fairest  ground  where  fishermen  meet? 

There  the  west  wave  holds  the  red  sunlight 
Till  the  bells  at  home  are  rung  for  nine: 

Short,  short  the  watch,  and  calm  the  night; 
The  fiery  northern  streamers  shine; 

The  eastern  sky  anon  is  gold, 

And  winds  from  piny  forests  old 
Scatter  the  white  mists  off  the  brine. 

The  Province  craft  with  ours  at  morn 
Are  mingled  when  the  vapors  shift; 


102        ,  THE.  tPllt)'$-DAY    GALE. 

•\;A'ii  £ay,.  by  .breeze  and  current  borne, 

Across  the  bay  the  sailors  drift; 
With  toll  and  seine  its  wealth  they  win,- 
The  dappled,  silvery  spoil  come  in 
Fast  as  their  hands  can  haul  and  lift. 

New  England!  New  England! 

Thou  lovest  well  thine  ocean  main! 
It  spreadeth  its  locks  among  thy  rocks, 

And  long  against  thy  heart  hath  lain; 
Thy  ships  upon  its  bosom  ride 
And  feel  the  heaving  of  its  tide; 

To  thee  its  secret  speech  is  plain. 

Cape  Breton  and  Edward  Isle  between, 
In  strait  and  gulf  the  schooners  lay; 

The  sea  was  all  at  peace,  I  ween, 
The  night  before  that  August  day; 


THE    LORD'S-DAY    GALE.  103 

Was  never  a  Gloucester  skipper  there, 
But  thought  erelong,  with  a  right  good  fare, 
To  sail  for  home  from  Saint  Lawrence  Bay. 

New  England !  New  England  ! 

Thy  giant's  love  was  turned  to  hate! 
The  winds  control  his  fickle  soul, 

And  in  his  wrath  he  hath  no  mate. 
Thy  shores  his  angry  scourges  tear, 
And  for  thy  children  in  his  care 

The  sudden  tempests  lie  in  wait. 

The  East  Wind  gathered  all  unknown, — 
A  thick  sea-cloud  his  course  before; 

He  left  by  night  the  frozen  zone 
And  smote  the  cliffs  of  Labrador; 

He  lashed  the  coasts  on  either  hand, 

And  betwixt  the  Cape  and  Newfoundland 
Into  the  Bay  his  armies  pour. 


104  THE    LORD'S-DAY    GALE. 

He  caught  our  helpless  cruisers  there 
As  a  gray  wolf  harries  the  huddling  fold; 

A  sleet  —  a  darkness  —  rilled  the  air, 
A  shuddering  wave  before  it  rolled: 

That  Lord's-Day  morn  it  was  a  breeze, — 

At  noon,  a  blast  that  shook  the  seas, — 
At  night  —  a  wind  of  Death  took  hold! 

It  leapt  across  the  Breton  bar, 

A  death-wind  from  the  stormy  East! 

It  scarred  the  land,  and  whirled  afar 
The  sheltering  thatch  of  man  and  beast; 

It  mingled  rick  and  roof  and  tree, 

And  like  a  besom  swept  the  sea, 
And  churned  the  waters  into  yeast 

From  Saint  Paul's  light  to  Edward  Isle 
A  thousand  craft  it  smote  amain; 


THE    LORD'S-DAY    GALE.  105 

And  some  against  it  strove  the  while, 

And  more  to  make  a  port  were  fain: 
The  mackerel-gulls  flew  screaming  past, 
And  the  stick  that  bent  to  the  noonday  blast 
Was  split  by  the  sundown  hurricane. 

Woe,  woe  to  those  whom  the  islands  pen ! 

In  vain  they  shun  the  double  capes: 
Cruel  are  the  reefs  of  Magdalen; 

The  Wolf's  white  fang  what  prey  escapes? 
The  Grin'stone  grinds  the  bones  of  some, 
And  Coffin  Isle  is  craped  with  foam ;  — 

On  Deadman's  shore  are  fearful  shapes  ! 

O,  what  can  live  on  the  open  sea, 

Or  moored  in  port  the  gale  outride  ? 
The  very  craft  that  at  anchor  be 

Are  dragged  along  by  the  swollen  tide  ! 
5* 


106  THE    LORD'S-DAY    GALE. 

The  great  storm-wave  came  rolling  west, 
And  tossed  the  vessels  on  its  crest: 
The  ancient  bounds  its  might  defied ! 

The  ebb  to  check  it  had  no  power; 

The  surf  ran  up  an  untold  height; 
It  rose,  nor  yielded,  hour  by  hour, 

A  night  and  day,  a  day  and  night; 
Far  up  the  seething  shores  it  cast 
The  wrecks  of  hull  and  spar  and  mast, 

The  strangled  crews,  —  a  woeful  sight! 

There  were  twenty  and  more  of  Breton  sail 
Fast  anchored  on  one  mooring-ground ; 

Each  lay  within  his  neighbor's  hail, 
When  the  thick  of  the  tempest  closed  them  round 

All  sank  at  once  in  the  gaping  sea, — 

Somewhere  on  the  shoals  their  corses  be, 
The  foundered  hulks,  and  the  seamen  drowned. 


THE   LORD'S-DAY   GALE.  IO/ 

On  reef  and  bar  our  schooners  drove 

Before  the  wind,  before  the  swell ; 
By  the  steep  sand-cliffs  their  ribs  were  stove,  — 

Long,  long,  their  crews  the  tale  shall  tell ! 
Of  the  Gloucester  fleet  are  wrecks  threescore ; 
Of  the  Province  sail  two  hundred  more 

Were  stranded  in  that  tempest  fell. 

The  bedtime  bells  in  Gloucester  Town 
That  Sabbath  night  rang  soft  and  clear; 

The  sailors'  children  laid  them  down, — 

Dear  Lord!  their  sweet  prayers  couldst  thou  hear? 

'T  is  said  that  gently  blew  the  winds ; 

The  goodwives,  through  the  seaward  blinds, 
Looked  down  the  bay  and  had  no  fear. 

New  England!  New  England! 
Thy  ports  their  dauntless  seamen  mourn; 


IO8  THE    LORD'S-DAY    GALE. 

The  twin  capes  yearn  for  their  return 

Who  never  shall  be  thither  borne; 
Their  orphans  whisper  as  they  meet ; 
The  homes  are  dark  in  many  a  street, 

And  women  move  in  weeds  forlorn. 

And  wilt  thou  quail,  and  dost  thou  fear? 

Ah,  no!  though  widows'  cheeks  are  pale, 
The  lads  shall  say:  "Another  year, 

And  we  shall  be  of  age  to  sail ! " 
And  the  mothers'  hearts  shall  fill  with  pride, 
Though  tears  drop  fast  for  them  who  died 

When  the  fleet  was  wrecked  in  the  Lord's-Day  gale. 


TRANSLATIONS. 


THE  DEATH  OF  AGAMEMNON. 


I. 


HOMER. 


I. 

THE   DEATH   OF  AGAMEMNON. 

FROM  HOMER. 
[Odyssey,  XL,  385-456.] 

ODYSSEUS  IN  HADES. 
AFTERWARD,  soon  as  the  chaste  Persephone  hither 

and  thither  385 

Now  had  scattered  afar  the  slender  shades  of    the 

women, 

Came  the  sorrowing  ghost  of  Agamemnon  Atreides  ; 
Round  whom  thronged,  besides,  the  souls  of  the  others 

who  also 
Died,  and  met  their  fate,  with  him  in  the  house  of 

Aigisthos. 
He,  then,  after  he  drank  of  the  dark  blood,  instantly 

knew  me, —  J9° 


114  HOMER. 

Ay,  and  he  wailed  aloud,   and  plenteous   tears  was 
shedding, 

Toward   me  reaching  hands  and   eagerly  longing  to 
touch  me ; 

But  he  was  shorn  of  strength,  nor  longer  came  at  his 
bidding 

That  great  force  which  once  abode  in  his  pliant  mem 
bers. 

Seeing  him  thus,  I  wept,  and  my  heart  was  laden  with 

pity,  395 

And,  uplifting  my  voice,  in  winge'd  words  I  addressed 

him  : 

"King  of  men,  Agamemnon,  thou  glorious  son  of 
Atreus, 

Say,  in  what  wise  did  the  doom  of  prostrate  death  over 
come  thee? 

Was  it  within  thy  ships  thou  wast  subdued  by  Poseidon 

Rousing  the  dreadful  blast  of  winds  too   hard  to  be 

mastered,  -*00 


HOMER.  115 

Or  on  the  firm-set  land  did  banded  foemen  destroy 
thee 

Cutting  their  oxen  off,  and  their  flocks  so  fair,  or,  it 
may  be, 

While  in  a  town's  defence,  or  in  that  of  women,  con 
tending  ? " 

Thus  I  spake,  and  he,  replying,  said  to  me  straight 
way: 

"Nobly-born  and  wise  Odysseus,  son  of  Laertes,         405 

Neither  within  my  ships  was  I  subdued  by  Poseidon 

Rousing  the  dreadful  blast  of  winds  too  hard  to  be 
mastered, 

Nor  on  the  firm-set  land  did  banded  foemen  destroy 
me, — 

Nay,  but  death  and  my  doom  were  well  contrived  by 
Aigisthos, 

Who,  with  my  curse'd  wife,  at  his  own  house  bidding 
me  welcome,  4"> 


Il6  HOMER. 

Fed  me,  and  slew  me,  as  one  might  slay  an  ox  at  the 
manger ! 

So,  by  a  death  most  wretched,  I  died;  and  all  my 
companions 

Round  me  were  slain  off-hand,  like  white-toothed  swine 
that  are  slaughtered 

Thus,  when  some  lordly  man,  abounding  in  power  and 
riches, 

Orders  a  wedding-feast,  or  a  frolic,  or  mighty  carousal.^s 

Thou  indeed  hast  witnessed  the  slaughter  of  number 
less  heroes 

Massacred,  one  by  one,  in  the  battle's  heat ;  but  with 
pity 

All  thy  heart  had  been  full,  if  thou  hadst  seen  what 

t 
I  tell  thee, — 

How  in  the  hall  we  lay   among  the  wine-jars,   and 

under 
Tables  laden  with  food ;  and  how  the  pavement,  on  all 

sides  4W 


HOMER.  117 

Swam  with  blood !  And  I  heard  the  dolorous  cry  of 
Kassandra, 

Priam's  daughter,  whom  treacherous  Klytaimnestra 
anear  me 

Slew ;  and  upon  the  ground  I  fell  in  my  death-throes, 
vainly 

Reaching  out  hands  to  my  sword,  while  the  shameless 
woman  departed, 

Nor  did  she  even  stay  to  press  her  hands  on  my  eye 
lids,  42s 

No,  nor  to  close  my  mouth,  although  I  was  passing 

to  Hades. 

> 
O,  there   is  naught  more   dire,  more   insolent  than  a 

woman 

« 

After  the  very  thought  of  deeds  like  these  has  pos- 
sess^d  her,  — 

One  who  would  dare  to  devise  an  act  so  utterly  shame 
less, 


Il8  HOMER. 

Lying  in  wait  to  slay  her  wedded  lord.  I  bethought 

me,  «o 

Verily,  home  to  my  children  and  servants  giving  me 
welcome 

Safe  to  return;  but  she  has  wrought  for  herself  con 
fusion 

Plotting  these  grievous  woes,  and  for  other  women  here 
after, 

Even  for  those,  in  sooth,  whose  thoughts  are  set  upon 
goodness." 

Thus  he  spake,  and  I,  in  turn  replying,    addressed 

him :  435 

t 
"  Heavens !  how  from  the  first  has  Zeus  the  thunderer 

hated, 
All  for  the  women's  wiles,  the  brood  of  Atreus !    What 

numbers  * 

Perished  in  quest  of  Helen,  —  and  Klytaimnestra,  the 

meanwhile, 


HOMER.  119 

Wrought  in  her  soul   this  guile  for  thee  afar  on  thy 

journey." 

Thus  I  spake,  and  he,  replying,  said  to  me  straight 
way  :  440 

"  See  that  thou  art  not,  then,  like  me  too  mild  to  thy 
helpmeet  j 

Nor  to  her  ear  reveal  each  secret  matter  thou  know- 
est, 

Tell  her  the  part,  forsooth,  and  see  that  the  rest  shall 
be  hidden, 

Nathless,  not  unto  thee  will  come  such  murder,  Odys 
seus, 

Dealt  by  a  wife ;  for  wise  indeed,  and  true  in  her  pur 
pose,  445 

Noble  Penelope  is,  the  child  of  Ikarios.     Truly, 

She  it  was  whom  we  left,  a  fair  young  bride,  when 
we  started 

Off  for  the  wars  ;  and  then  an  infant  lay  at  her  bosom, 


120  HOMER. 

One  who  now,  methinks,  in  the  list  of  men  must  be 

seated,  — 

Blest  indeed!   ah,   yes,  for  his   well-loved   father,  re 
turning,  450 
Him  shall  behold,  and  the  son  shall  clasp  the  sire,  as 

is  fitting. 
Not  unto  me  to  feast  my  eyes  with  the   sight  of  my 

offspring 
Granted   the  wife  of  my  bosom,  but  first  of  life  she 

bereft  me. 
Therefore  I  say,  moreover,  and  charge  thee  well  to 

remember, 
Unto  thine  own  dear  land  steer  thou  thy  vessel  in 

secret,  4SS 

Not  in  the  light ;  since  faith  can  be  placed  in  woman 

no  longer." 


II. 

AISCHYLOS. 


II. 

THE   DEATH   OF  AGAMEMNON. 

FROM  AISCHYLOS. 

I. 

[AISCHYLOS,  Agamemnon,  1266-1318.*] 

CHORUS  —  KASSANDRA  —  AGAMEMNON. 

CHORUS. 

O  WRETCHED  woman  indeed,  and  O  most  wise, 
Much  hast  thou  said ;  but  if  thou  knowest  well 
Thy  doom,  why,  like  a  heifer,  by  the  Gods 
Led  to  the  altar,  tread  so  brave  of  soul  ? 

KASSANDRA. 

There  's  no  escape,  O  friends,  the  time  is  full. 

CHORUS. 

Nathless,  the  last  to  enter  gains  in  time. 

*  Text  of  Paley. 


124  AISCHYLOS. 

KASSANDRA. 

The  day  has  come;  little  I  make  by  flight 

CHORUS. 
Thou  art  bold  indeed,  and  of  a  daring  spirit! 

KASSANDRA. 

Such  sayings  from  the  happy  none  hath  heard. 

CHORUS. 
Grandly  to  die  is  still  a  grace  to  mortals. 

KASSANDRA. 

Alas,  my  sire,— thee  and  thy  noble  brood! 
(She  starts  back  from  the  entrance.) 

CHORUS. 
How  now?    What  horror  turns  thee  back  again? 


AISCHYLOS.  125 

KASSANDRA. 

Faugh !  faugh ! 

CHORUS. 

Why  such  a  cry?    There's  something  chills  thy  soul! 

KASSANDRA. 

The  halls  breathe  murder,  —  ay,  they  drip  with  blood. 

CHORUS. 
How?    'Tis  the  smell  of  victims  at  the  hearth. 

KASSANDRA. 

Nay,  but  the  exhalation  of  the  tomb! 

CHORUS. 
No  Syrian  dainty,  this,  of  which  thou  speakest. 


126  AISCHYLOS. 

KASSANDRA  (at  the  portat). 

Yet  will  I  in  the  palace  wail  my  own 
And  Agamemnon's  fate!     Enough  of  life! 
Alas,  O  friends! 

Yet  not  for  naught  I  quail,  not  as  a  bird 
Snared  in  the  bush:   bear  witness,  though  I  die, 
A  woman's  slaughter  shall  requite  my  own, 
And,  for  this  man  ill-yoked,  a  man  shall  fall! 
Thus  prays  of  you  a  stranger,  at  death's  door. 

CHORUS. 

Lost  one,  I  rue  with  thee  thy  foretold  doom! 

KASSANDRA. 

Once  more  I  fain  would  utter  words,  once  more, 
'T  is  my  own  threne  !     And  I  invoke  the  Sun, 
By  his  last  beam,  that  my  detested  foes 


AISCHYLOS.  127 

May  pay  no  less  to  them  who  shall  avenge  me, 
Than  I  who  die  an  unresisting  slave ! 


(She  enters  the  palace.} 

CHORUS. 

Of  Fortune  was  never  yet  enow 

To  mortal  man;  and  no  one  ever 

Her  presence  from  his  house  would  sever 

And  point,  and  say,  "Come  no  more  nigh!" 

Unto  our  King  granted  the  Gods  on  high 

That  Priam's  towers  should  bow, 
And  homeward,  crowned  of  Heaven,  hath  he  come ; 
But  now  if,  for  the  ancestral  blood  that  lay 
At  his  doors,  he  falls,  —  and  the   dead,  that  cursed  his 
home, 

He,  dying,  must  in  full  requite, — 


128  AISCHYLOS. 

What  manner  of  man  is  one  that  would  not  pray 
To  be  born  with  a  good  attendant  Sprite? 
(An  outcry  -within  the  palace.} 

AGAMEMNON. 

Woe  's  me !     I  am  stricken  a  deadly  blow  within  ! 

CHORUS. 
Hark  !    Who  is 't  cries  "  a  blow  "  ?    Who  meets  his  death  ? 

AGAMEMNON. 

Woe 's  me !  again !  a  second  time  I  am  stricken ! 

CHORUS. 

The  deed,  methinks,  from  the  King's  cry,  is  clone. 
Quick,  let  us  see  what  help  may  be  in  counsel ! 


AISCHYLOS.  I2C 

2. 
*  [Agamemnon,  1343  -  1377.] 

Enter  KLYTAIMNESTRA,  from  the  Palace. 

KLYTAIMNESTRA. 

Now,  all  this  formal  outcry  having  vent, 

I  shall  not  blush  to  speak  the  opposite. 

How  should  one,  plotting  evil  things  for  foes, 

Encompass  seeming  friends  with  such  a  bane 

Of  toils  ?  it  were  a  height  too  great  to  leap  ? 

Not  without  full  prevision  came,  though  late, 

To  me  this  crisis  of  an  ancient  feud. 

And  here,  the  deed  being  done,  I  stand  —  even  where 

I  smote  him !  nor  deny  that  tnus  I  did  it, 

So  that  he  could  not  flee  nor  ward  off  doom. 

A  seamless  net,  as  round  a  fish,  I  cast 

About  him,  yea,  a  deadly  wealth  of  robe; 

Then  smote  him  twice;  and  with  a  double  cry 
6*  i 


ISO  AISCHYLOS. 

He  loosed  his  limbs;  and  to  him  fallen  I  gave 

Yet  a  third  thrust,  a  grace  to  Hades,  lord 

Of  the  underworld  and  guardian  of  the  dead. 

So,  falling,  out  he  gasps  his  soul,  and  out 

He  spurts  a  sudden  jet  of  blood,  that  smites 

Me  with  a  sable  rain  of  gory  dew, — 

Me,  then  no  less  exulting  than  the  field 

In  the  sky's  gift,  while  bursts  the  pregnant  ear! 

Things  being  thus,  old  men  of  Argos,  joy, 

If  joy  ye  can;  —  I  glory  in  the  deed! 

And  if  'twere  seemly  ever  yet  to  pour 

Libation  to  the  dead,  'twere  most  so  now; 

Most  meet  that  one,  who  poured  for  his  own  home 

A  cup  of  ills,  returning,  thus  should  drain  it! 

CHORUS. 

Shame  on  thy  tongue  !  how  bold  of  mouth  thou  art 
That  vauntest  such  a  speech  above  thy  husband! 


AISCHYLOS.  131 

KLYTAIMNESTRA. 

Ye  try  me  as  a  woman  loose  of  soul  j 

But  I  with  dauntless  heart  avow  to  you 

Well  knowing  —  and  whether  ye  choose  to  praise  or  blame 

I  care  not  —  this  is  Agamemnon ;  yea, 

My  husband;  yea,  a  corpse,  of  this  right  hand, 

This  craftsman  sure,  the  handiwork!     Thus  stands  it. 

3- 

[Agamemnon,   1466-1507.] 

CHORUS  —  SEMI-CHORUS  —  KLYTAIMNESTRA. 
CHORUS. 

Woe !     Woe ! 
King!     O  how  shall  I  weep  for  thy  dying? 

What  shall  my  fond  heart  say  anew? 
Thou  in  the  web  of  the  spider  art  lying, 

Breathing  out  life  by  a  death  she  shall  rue. 


132  AISCHYLOS. 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

Alas  !  alas  for  this  slavish  couch !     By  a  sword 

Two-edged,  by  a  hand  untrue, 
Thou  art  smitten,  even  to  death,  my  lord! 

KLYTAIMNESTRA. 

Thou.«sayest  this  deed  was  mine  alone ; 

But  I  bid  thee  call  me  not 
The  wife  of  Agamemnon's  bed; 
'Twas  the  ancient  fell  Alastor*  of  Atreus'  throne, 

The  lord  of  a  horrid  feast,  this  crime  begot, 
Taking  the  shape  that  seemed  the  wife  of  the  dead,  — 

His  sure  revenge,  I  wot, 
A  victim  ripe  hath  claimed  for  the  young  that  bled. 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

Who  shall  bear  witness  now, — 
Who  of  this  murder,  now,  thee  guiltless  hold? 

*  The  Evil  Genius,  the  Avenger. 


AISCHYLOS.  133 

How  sayest  thou  ?     How  ? 
Yet  the  fell  Alastor  may  have  holpen,  I  trow : 
Still  is  dark  Ares  driven 
Down  currents  manifold 

Of  kindred  blood,  wherever  judgment  is  given, 
And  he  comes  to  avenge  the  children  slain  of  old, 
And  their  thick  gore  cries  to  Heaven ! 

CHORUS. 

Woe !    Woe ! 
King!    O  how  shall  I  weep  for  thy  dying? 

What  shall  my  fond  heart  say  anew? 
Thou  in  the  web  of  the  spider  art  lying, 

Breathing  out  life  by  a  death  she  shall  rue! 

SEMI-CHORUS. 
Alas!   alas  for  this  slavish  couch!     By  a  sword 

Two-edged,  by  a  hand  untrue, 
Thou  art  smitten,  even  to  death,  my  lord! 


134  AISCHYLOS. 

KLYTAIMNESTRA. 

Hath  he  not  subtle  Ate  brought 

Himself,  to  his  kingly  halls? 
'T  was  on  our  own  dear  offspring,  —  yea, 
On  Iphigeneia,  wept  for  still,  he  wrought 
The  doom  that  cried  for  the  doom  by  which  he  falls. 
O,  let  him  not  in  Hades  boast,  I  say, 

For  'tis  the  sword  that  calls, 
Even  for  that  foul  deed,  his  soul  away ! 


THE    END. 


Cambridge  :  Electrotyped  and  Printed  by  Welch,  Bigelow,  &  Co. 


14  DAY  USE 

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